


even if I run (I remain in the same place)

by sassy_ninja



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Magic, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Courfeyrac being Courfeyrac, Domestic Fluff, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Established Relationship, Everyone Is Gay, Healthy Relationships, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Self-Doubt, Survivor Guilt, Wands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:01:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29909070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassy_ninja/pseuds/sassy_ninja
Summary: Ten years after the end of the war Enjolras takes a break from his work as a Curse-breaker to visit his old friend, the wandmaker in Paris.  Still haunted by the guilt and the mistakes he made, he's never really comes home and now he's been running for so long he doesn't know how to stop anymore. But, even in the darkest of moments Courfeyrac is always there with his hand held out in unwavering faith and unending love, perhaps together they can learn how to live again.ortoo much wandlore, a splash of healthy communication and Enjolras finally comes home.
Relationships: Courfeyrac/Enjolras (Les Misérables)
Kudos: 5





	even if I run (I remain in the same place)

**Author's Note:**

> ok so this has been sitting in my laptop for like... at least a year now but I never posted it bc I planned on writing a whole big long fic in this au but I ended up never finishing it bc of a certain miss Joanne Kathleen Rowling being a horrible person. as a queer person in the uk the growing trend of transphobia is to put it lightly: terrifying. so I stopped writing it and I don't think I'm ever planning on finishing it but I've already written 15k so if ppl like this I can post more snippets from this au? this is technically the ending so those will be from before/during the war
> 
> I'd also like to clarify that this isn't the wizarding war from during the Harry Potter books but a different one occurring in France at a later point altho I've borrowed a few elements from it bc who's gonna stop me lol

“Enjolras?” Courfeyrac looks surprised for just a moment before grins, emerging out of the backroom covered in wood shavings and dust, “what’s up? Wand problems?”

“No, I was in town, I thought I’d visit,” he says, shrugging off his cloak. It’s been a long while since he was back here, probably years now that he thinks about it. The shop is still rickety, crammed full of little boxes all the way from the floor to the ceiling, each one containing a single wand. There’s a heavy taste of unfulfilled magic in here, so strong it coats his tongue like orange zest.

“Sure, whatever you say,” Courfeyrac replies, half teasing, “you want some tea?”

Enjolras nods and lets himself be led into the backroom. There are big branches of wood strewn around the room, jars of things only half of which he can name.

Courfeyrac has always been more experimental with his wandmaking than the old masters had been, it’s earned him quite the reputation across the world. He’s always gotten quite the reaction when he tells people that his wand was Courfeyrac’s first, the first is always special.

“Last time I heard you were in Mexico,” Courfeyrac says after he pours them both cups of tea with a wave of his wand, spruce, thirteen inches, dragon heartstring, surprisingly swishy. Enjolras still remembers it well, even after all this time.

“I was in Mexico, had to go to Greece for a while and I have a few months without anything to do right now. I just got back to Paris today,” he shrugs.

“So, you’re staying? For a little while at least?” there’s just a touch of hope in Courfeyrac’s voice that Enjolras wants to ignore.

“Yes, a few weeks, unless I get called away sooner,” he sips his tea and it’s made perfectly the way he likes it and he sighs, content before he notices Courfeyrac’s fidgeting. He flicks his wand out of his sleeve easily and passes it to him before he can open his mouth to ask. He gets a big pleased smile in return.

“Hawthorn, phoenix feather core, ten inches, unyielding. Perfect condition as always,” Courfeyrac says, running his fingers along the wand and Enjolras barely represses the shiver he gets down his spine.

He’s always just a touch possessive about Enjolras’ wand, the first wand that he made after he finished his apprenticeship in London. It’s pretty standard at a glance, certainly nothing like the things that he’s making now, but there’s just something about it that’s special. He remembers what that woman had told him when he was hiking in the Himalayas, that wandmakers rarely ever let their first get so far from them. He wonders if Courfeyrac ever feels a pang from its absence.

He slips it back into his sleeve and Courfeyrac starts filling him in on all the things that have happened whilst he’s been gone, the important things Combeferre has told him, but he appreciates Courfeyrac’s storytelling. He has to stop halfway through some stories to go attend to customers, Enjolras leaning just in the shadow of the doorway to watch him calm down a nervous young wizard getting his first wand, chatter with a middle-aged witch who’d broken hers beyond repair.

He was always good at this, the talking, the communicating, Enjolras thinks with a smile. He’s come so far now, so different to the shivering and scared boy that he’d been after the last battle, eyes never quite meeting yours. Now he’s laughing again, standing with his back straight and his hair perfectly curled as he flirts with an old witch until she blushes, swatting at him and telling him that flattery will get him nowhere.

“I was thinking I could close up early today,” Courfeyrac says after he ushers a nervous looking teenage wizard out, new wand clutched tightly in his hand, “we could walk up to my flat, I can make some dinner. You’re staying at mine, right?”

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” he says simply because it’s true, he’d never bothered to keep a place in Paris when he was never here anymore, even though he supposes the city is technically his home. Home has always been complicated, when he thinks about it he still sees the tent that he, Combeferre and Courfeyrac had shared back in seventh year, running across the country looking for horcruxes. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t stay, maybe that’s why ten years after the end of the war he’s still running.

Courfeyrac just hums in that way that means ‘if you ever wanted to stay, I’d let you’, as he extinguishes the fireplace, puts always all of his tools into their neat little drawers. He bustles around a little bit more, peeking into boxes at what looks like random, but knowing Courfeyrac there’s some sort of method in it somewhere.

They walk down the street together, even after so long Enjolras still gets a few awed glances, but mostly the nods and smiles are aimed at Courfeyrac. It’s nice to just be able to bask in someone else’s warmth for a while, not be the Chosen One or even the French cursebreaker, just the wandmaker’s friend back from abroad. He gets introduced to more people than he can even remember, shaking hands and smiling until finally they make their way down an unfamiliar street and Courfeyrac unlocks a door.

It smells like him, the flat, all warm honey and mint. Enjolras can tell that it’s his even though he’s never been here before. He slips off his cloak and shoes, staring for a moment at the photos by the door. There’s one of all of Les Amis, taken before the war had started, before they’d lost that childish spark in their eyes. There’s another one of Enjolras and Combeferre, talking politics but not seriously, grinning at each other and laughing silently. The rest of them he doesn’t recognise, there are places he’s never been, people he doesn’t know, in the ten years of absence everything has moved on without him.

“I’ve missed a lot,” he says quietly, not turning away from the photos, but he knows Courfeyrac is standing just behind him, feels the tension slowly leave his shoulders.

“Only about a decade,” Courfeyrac snorts and Enjolras laughs quietly for the first time in a long time, “have you told anyone else you’re back yet?”

“Combeferre – I saw him earlier, before I came to see you,” he says, sitting down on one of Courfeyrac’s kitchen stools.

“Of course,” he sighs, shaking his head as he starts to prepare dinner, “are you planning on telling anyone else? Or am I going to have to keep you hidden away here again? Marius is gonna be pretty mad if I have to cancel our weekly lunches.”

“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras starts, he recognises the tone in his voice already and he’s tired, he doesn’t want to get into this fight every single time he comes back.

“No, don’t ‘Courfeyrac’ me,” he scowls, twisting his wand half threateningly and several vegetables start washing in the sink whilst the kettle boils, “I’m tired of this. Everyone is always tiptoeing around you, but I don’t think you’re some fragile little baby that needs to be coddled. When are you going to stop running, Enjolras? Don’t pretend you haven’t been, it’s obvious. I’m tired, you’re my best friend, I love you–” his voice breaks slightly and Enjolras can’t help but reach out for him even though he steps away, “the war has been over for so long.”

“I know that–”

“Then why don’t you act like it?” Courfeyrac snaps back, running a frustrated hand across his face. Enjolras doesn’t recognise the gesture, there are a lot of things he doesn’t recognise anymore.

“It’s hard, I’ve tried I just can’t,” he doesn’t look him in the eye, doesn’t want to see the heartbreak that’s settled there over the years.

“Can’t or won’t? It’s hard, I know it’s hard, you think you were only one struggling? But you need to heal, you need to stop punishing yourself for things that aren’t your fault and you can’t change anyways,” he says, almost pleading this time. He reaches out for Enjolras’ hand, his fingers are warm and rough against his own, the pattern of callouses is still familiar.

“It was my fault,” he says back, voice so fragile he barely recognises it, “if I had just been more careful then – then you would’ve–”

“Would’ve what?” he asks softly, taking Enjolras’ hands and lifting them up to his neck, he brushes his fingertips across the long thick scar that circles his throat. The sleeves of his robes fall down and there’s more on his wrist, ones that trace their way up his arms and around his body, Enjolras knows that they're there even without seeing them. He knows the ones that never left a mark too.

They’ve healed completely, but the scars will always remain, curse scars always do. They’re just a slight discolouration, pale reminders on his tanned skin of what Enjolras’ mistakes had done. He was supposed to be the saviour, he was supposed to be their leader. He failed and still somehow Courfeyrac trusted him, looked at him like _that_ , all these years later continue to forgive him for something he hasn’t even forgiven himself for. He just looks away, doesn’t say anything, but Courfeyrac understands, he always does.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore, it hasn’t hurt for years,” he says, kissing Enjolras’ fingertips, “it’s healed, I’ve healed. The only one still hurting is you. When are you going to come back to us, Enjolras?”

He shakes his head, he doesn’t know. He pulls Courfeyrac closer and just breathes in his smell, the mint, the honey, the sweet tang of wood. He thinks about where home is and his body knows what his mind doesn’t: that home has always been here, in Courfeyrac’s arms.

“I want to stay, I just don’t know how anymore,” he says after a long while, voice a little hoarse and Courfeyrac takes a step back, wiping quickly at his eyes.

“We can learn together, can’t we? Just like we used to,” Courfeyrac smiles and Enjolras nods and for the first time in years he thinks that he truly believes in something. He doesn’t stop smiling when Courfeyrac turns to finish cooking and he twirls his wand between his fingers absentmindedly.

He remembers all the way six years ago, he’d just been drifting through life after the war and had taken up a job as a freelance Curse-breaker on a whim. His original wand (Hornbeam, twelve inches, dragon heartstring, stiff) had been acting up, it didn’t like his lack of purpose or kept on refusing to do magic. Courfeyrac had just finished off his apprenticeship in London, it had been a strange coincidence that Enjolras had managed to be in Paris at the same time.

‘I know your wand’s been a little funky lately, how about you try out one of mine,’ he’d said, offering up a box without any judgement. The Hawthorne had felt right in his hand, sparking as soon as he had waved it and somehow the smile on Courfeyrac’s face was a little sad.

‘It’s perfect, thank you,’ he had said, tucking it into his sleeve.

‘It was my first wand that I made after I finished my apprenticeship,’ and he made it sound so easy, so simple. It wasn’t until years later that Enjolras realised just how much that meant, how wandmakers usually gave these first wands to their lovers, their closest person. It was more than just a wand it was a promise, it was the wand they gave themselves most to, that they’d put most of themselves inside.

He knows that now and with a flick of his wand he helps to lift the plates of steaming food out into the dining room. It’s nothing fancy, just homely, like Courfeyrac always liked. There are plants on the windowsills, mostly non-magical from what he can see and next to that photos, always more photos. He sees a dozen little versions of himself smiling, waving, glaring, throwing a snowball.

“Probably been a while since you got an actual homecooked meal I bet,” Courfeyrac grins as Enjolras has to hold himself back from tearing into the food, it smells divine, better than anything he’s had since he was back in Paris a few years ago.

“Too long,” he replies after he swallows down his mouthful of food because if he tells the truth then Courfeyrac will get too concerned again. Courfeyrac just beams back at him, pleased.

* * *

He wakes up in the early morning, too early for anybody else, but his body is used to it after so long. There’s no room for long languid mornings when you’re a Curse-breaker and well, even if he chooses to stay some habits die hard.

Courfeyrac is still asleep, of course he is, Enjolras has to hold back a smile as he pulls the covers back over him, his exposed skin cold in the morning air. He’s so peaceful like this in the half darkness, his scars glowing white. Enjolras is quiet as he slips out of bed, taking some clothes that they’d scattered on the floor last night, they’re always so rushed on the first night.

He’s careful when he makes himself a cup of coffee, drinking it milky and sweet just like he used to do before the war. It’s nice, he thinks, to wake up to a quiet house, your lover still asleep in bed, the city slowly grumbling itself awake around you. The dawn light filters its way into the kitchen, getting stronger and he perches on the counter, watching as the street fills with muggle cars.

He startles when Courfeyrac runs into the kitchen a few hours later, calling his name, hair wild and eyes wide, but he stops dead when he sees him sitting on the counter. “Merlin, I woke up with the bed empty and cold and I thought that–” he lets out a short laugh, shaking his head, “–I thought you’d gone again.”

“I wouldn’t, I promised I’d try,” he says, opening his legs so that Courfeyrac can come stand between them, pressing his face into the crook of his neck. He’s mostly naked, just the shirt that Enjolras had been wearing yesterday thrown on and he tries to bury himself into Enjolras’ warmth with a laugh.

“I know you will, I just got scared,” Courfeyrac says nestling deeper like he’s trying to go back to sleep leaning against Enjolras.

“Everyone gets scared,” he replies, pressing a kiss onto his messy hair, “let’s go back to bed, alright?”

Courfeyrac follows and then drags Enjolras down when they get close enough, sending them tumbling onto the bed in a mess of bony limbs and quiet laughter. They manage to get the duvet over them with a little bit of wriggling, but Courfeyrac never lets go, curling around Enjolras and mumbling sleepy things like ‘warm’ and ‘coffee’. He doesn’t mind, he really doesn’t and for the first time in ten years he goes back to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> so I hope u enjoyed!! if u did pls leave a comment and a kudo!! or u can come shout at me on my [twitter](https://twitter.com/lesbiancourf) I talk a lot abt les mis on there!


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